Dark Resurrection

by Frederick Preston

  * * *

  Fall approaching, Jesus and Cyril continued in their nightly discussions, covering practically all aspects of man’s collective knowledge, Jesus settling one evening on a subject most were loath to think of, let alone speak of – the subject of death. Sitting in the kitchen in the late evening after they had fed, Jesus was nursing a goblet of wine while Cyril snacked on dried dates and a cup of herbal tea. Mary, not wishing to intrude on the intense discussion, had walked out to enjoy the night, his parents and Ruth were asleep.

  Explaining some of the Hebrew religious myths to the Greek teacher, a disgusted Cyril said at a little after one, “That is ridiculous, what kind of god would make people exactly the way they are supposed to be in life, and then damn them forever in death to a place like Sheol or Hell for behaving like they were ordained to be by him?”

  “I don’t know, it doesn’t sound right to me either,” Jesus replied, “But it’s what they believe in Judea, even I had trouble with it.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, that’s why I traveled the world in my youth, in search of a better explanation regarding God, for by the time I was fifteen, much of the Hebrew religion struck me as fallacious.”

  “Fallacious, they must be crazy, such a belief system is illogical!”

  “Perhaps, but even I bought into it once.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes, that simply proves we are human,” said Cyril, hands out in a deferential shrug, “You, my good friend, have become wise due to learning from your experiences, proving above all you are an intelligent man.”

  “Intelligent, if I’d been truly intelligent I wouldn’t have gotten myself killed,” Jesus retorted, rubbing his hairless chin.

  “That is not necessarily true, but if you had continued in such obtuse beliefs after what happened to you in Judea, I would have to consider you stupid.”

  “Really,” Jesus scoffed with a bitter laugh, looking to the teacher.

  “Yes, really,” said Cyril.

  After a few moments of silence, Jesus asked, “So Cyril, I know you’re an atheist, but what do you think happens when one dies?”

  Taking a sip of tea, Cyril answered, “I do not know, but am certain there is no such place as Sheol, for if there are gods, they certainly do not behave like petty, mortal men, like that Yahweh character of the Hebrews does.”

  “I agree, but what do you think about death?”

  “Death for me is inevitable, especially since I have no desire to continue in this existence as a vampire, and if there is such a thing as an afterlife I shall deal with it as it comes to me.”

  “Do you believe there is one?” asked Jesus, pouring another goblet.

  “No, especially since no one in provable history has ever returned to tell us of such an existence beyond death.”

  “I and Mary are dead.”

  “Are you truly dead?” Cyril asked, pointing a finger at Jesus, “You have no real proof of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Death, by definition, is always accompanied by stillness, decay and disassociation, you and your lovely woman are vital, ambulatory, show no signs of putrefaction, and seem on the surface to be as alive as I.”

  “I hadn’t looked at it in that way.”

  “No matter, self examination is subjective at best, now, finishing the answering of your original question, in my opinion, true death is oblivion.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, but since I do not know for certain, akin to Protagoras, I will not venture an absolute negative judgment toward the idea of an afterlife,” Cyril replied, looking Jesus in the eyes.

  “The sophist from Thrace, what if you find there is one?” asked Jesus, finishing his goblet.

  “Like Socrates is alleged to have said, I will ask the first man I come across if he knows anything.”

  “And prove him a fool.”

  “Like we all are,” said a smiling Cyril, “You have read Plato?”

  “Yes,” answered Jesus, having read a Latin translation of Plato’s dialogues in his twenties.

  “A good and wise man, if just a bit queer.”

  “I read about that too.”

  “Everyone has their faults,” Cyril replied, resting his head on an upright arm.

  “Quite true,” said Jesus, “Well then, if Mary and I are not truly dead, what are we?” He sat his empty goblet down, looking for some explanation to define their existence.

  “I do not know, but have formulated a theory. May I be candid?”

  “By all means, please.”

  “The tick and the leech consume blood to survive.”

  “And?”

  “They are considered parasites upon the living, no offense meant, but you and Maria fit that criteria.”

  “None taken, and I understand what you mean, but though they behave in a similar fashion to us, they live and die after a time for whatever reason. Herodotus proved that; we don’t die ever, unless the sun destroys us,” Jesus countered, challenging Cyril’s theory.

  “That, along with oak stakes and fire.”

  “True, but nothing else can destroy us as far as I know.”

  “Then I must concede that your pronouncements disprove my theory,” said Cyril, yawning.

  “So, who was the man who stated the gods were fabricated by greater men to keep lesser men in line?” asked Jesus, recalling a character from Plato’s dialogues.

  “Critias, I think,” Cyril answered with another deep yawn.

  “You need sleep.”

  “Yes; you and your woman need to find blood before sunup,” Cyril replied, rising from his chair.

  “We fed earlier, a pair of thieves on the west highway,” said Jesus, heading to the slave house with the elderly teacher.

  “What did they try to do to you?” Cyril asked as they walked along.

  “They wanted to rob us so we killed them.”

  “So, you are keeping the roads safe for the citizenry,” an Egyptian speaking Cyril observed, chuckling as he opened the door, “Now I know why Pericles liked the vampires of Athens, good night, good Julius.”

  “Good night to you Cyril,” said Jesus as the door closed.

  Jesus stood, staring at the closed door, reflecting on the wisdom of the elderly slave. I wonder if he’s the wise teacher who would be sent to me in my vision of the Leviathan, thought Jesus, glancing to the whitewashed eaves of the slave quarters. All he heard was the silence of the night and the chirping of crickets. Looking about for his consort, Jesus spotted her by the river, relaxing on the beach.

  Heading along the path to the river, he joined her and remarked, “Why didn’t you stay woman, Cyril and I were discussing religion and the subject of death.”

  “That question answers itself, I’m not fascinated by those subjects like you are, and didn’t want to keep you from your conversation.”

  “You don’t mind me talking with him, do you?”

  “Not at all, I just wanted to enjoy the cool evening, would you like to take a dip?”

  “Certainly,” said Jesus as Mary rose to her feet.

  Disrobing, they entered the chilly water, enjoying the refreshing feel.

  Wading in the still pool created by the boulder and sandbank, Jesus floated on his back, staring at the night sky while his consort swam several breaststrokes around him.

  Swimming to him, Mary asked, “Jesus, why are you so preoccupied with religion and death?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been that way since I was a child.”

  “If I were you I’d forget about it, you’re never going to find the answer.”

  “Probably, but that doesn’t mean I won’t stop trying to find the answer.”

  “You’re so obsessed, let’s have fun,” said Mary, splashing him with water.

  “What ki
nd of fun?” asked Jesus, taking her in his arms.

  “I think you know,” Mary replied, giving him a passionate kiss.

  An hour later, they strolled from the riverbank, refreshed physically and spiritually, heading to the darkened house, as the kitchen lamp had run out of fuel. Retiring to their room, Jesus remarked, sitting down on the bed, “I was thinking, what if we take off for Europe this fall before winter sets in?”

  “What of your folks?”

  “They’ll be fine with Ganymede and Brutus here to protect them, and I was also thinking Cyril could use our room during our absence.”

  “When do you want to leave?”

  “After Callicles comes by in a few weeks, I have to show father how to handle grain sales, and told him I also want to offer him some of our oak tanned hides.”

  “You’re saving the urine tanned hides for yourself?”

  “They’re softer and don’t bother my skin the way oak tanned ones do,” said Jesus, lying on the bed in his tunic after having removed his shoes, crafted from the special leather by Electra.

  “What about selling more to the garrison first, that drunk only buys them wholesale,” Mary suggested, attempting to maximize their profits.

  “We already have, the centurion bought all he can take for the time being and we still have nearly a hundred left,” a yawning Jesus answered, rubbing his temples.

  “I guess we’ll have to sell them to him, the women have made shoes and cloaks from the very best leather, enough to last the family for years.”

  “Maybe we should sell those too,” said Jesus.

  “How?”

  “Callicles always has shoes and cloaks for sale, he has to buy them somewhere, so why not buy them from us?”

  Mary smiled at Jesus, the vampiric businessman, and lay down beside him, both falling into slumber.